Frances Alt says her real claim to fame is being a "Mom" to eight, "Grandma Honey" to sixteen, and "Babe" to a fifty-something hunk of a husband.

Frances Alt lives at Wilson, North Carolina and is is editor of the American Dairy Farmer, writes and edits agricultural journals and magazines, writes feature stories for farming magazines. She says she thrives on challenge, is an avid golfer, although playing the game is not enough. She says she needs the thrill of competition and the pot of gold a the end of the rainbow.

As to aims and ambitions, Frances says, "I'm still trying to decide who I want to be when I grow up, that's if I decide to grow up. Life's kinda fun if you don't take it too seriously."

Her personal philosophy; "The course is always different - golf, writing, life - it's mindset that determines winners."

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Heartache I wandered lonely on the beach Of multicolored sand Envisioning the two of us Walking hand in hand Gazing out I saw the place, Where low the three seas meet Where ocean hues blend magically Like hearts when lovers greet I bent and scooped the sun warmed sand And held it to my chest Then opened up my palm and watched The grains of love divest Our love is strange and different It does not stand a chance No earthly manifestation Can crest from our romance The oceans and the years are vast And time will not digress The pain of heartaches ever real Is all we can profess

Still we can hold these feelings All bottled up inside And pretend we never happened Upon each others pride But then our lives would be a lie Our dreams a fairy tale So we'll walk thru life with heartache Insensate colored pale But darling we shall meet again In perhaps another time Our lives will fuse in proper form Our love is that sublime For now we'll bear the heartache Of knowing what can't be And dream about each other Caressing by the sea © f.fasano alt 1/98

Jigsaw II :The Other Side Pieces of my life Scattered on the floor Kick them around Mix them up even more   The pictures are there Alive in my brain The sound track is screaming Loud roars like a train   Images shooting Across my dulled head Gathering info To see where I bled

Is this what you meant When you asked me to play Look back and discover When life went away   the jigsaw puzzles laying there tempting teasing but beware it's missing pieces   it'll screw up ur head and leave you for dead it's missing pieces ©  Fran Alt  Dec '97

Pyre

Yellow-orange-red sugar maple flames flickering,
Flurries scurrying in the autumn breeze.
Wildfire leaves racing rampant
Along suburban streets,
Pitched in piles of burning ember.
Sticks with marshmallows burnt black
Toasted in an autumn flame.

Yellow-orange-red South Bronx blaze,
Red roaring hungry tongues,
Lapping, licking up buildings,
Racing across tar roofs sucking up eaves.
Red-racing-screaming four alarm fire engines,
Rushing brave rescuers to hell.
Marshmallow-firemen-crying,
Carrying babies - black/ burnt blacker
Toasted in the arson game.

© Frances Fasano Alt,1996

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Spiked

Creamsickle-orange-sticky kids,
grow up floating Grand Marnier
on their Chivas,
spiking boring lives,
with --
Rusty Nails. Tet'nus anyone?

© f fasano alt, 3/11/1996

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Tar Beach, NY

Yellow-hot, lemon-ice sun dripping,
dribbling golden rays, onto black-tar streets.
Bare feet dodging splashing waves
flowing fire hydrants
hefting H20.
Chorus line kids holding hands --
holding-up traffic.
Magical rainbow-streaked streams
gushing fountains,
washing cherry-lemon-lime streaks,
dribbling down Italian iced chins.
Surround sound gleeful shrieks,
cinemascope eyes glaring.
Staring down drivers, gridlocked, horns blaring.
Cryogenic tempers dissolve in steaming curses,
"This ain't no damned beach!"

©3/8/95 f fasano-alt

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